


And So What

by MissFlitworth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Canon, no porn either hahah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth
Summary: It rains, they're in love, they're silly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	And So What

It starts to rain three days after armageddon. It wakes Crowley from a nap, beating against the skylights he doesn’t actually remember having, but there they are when he lies on his back in the middle of the bed, plant-life sprawling over the glass. Weeds and stragglers, fragile blooms stuck to the glass by rain. It’s warm inside, and Crowley likes the sleepy feeling, emphasised by the grey wet outside. Crowley blinks slowly up, starfished out in his silky soft sheet, heat seeping into him. 

“Isn’t it lovely?” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley agrees, humming, but Aziraphale can hardly be referring to the warm, golden doziness Crowley’s indulging in. Crowley focuses on the doorway to try and see what Aziraphale’s on about. He’s looking at  _ Crowley _ . 

“Me?” Crowley asks, muzzily, stretching, wriggling so the sheets fall off him, and Aziraphale goes bright red. Hilarious. “The rain? It looks wet. When’d I get a window here?”

“I like the stars,” Aziraphale says, defensively. “And I got bored, you were  _ sleeping _ , it’s  _ boring _ .”

“So you made a window to look at the stars, and grew some plants,” Crowley says. He’s pretty sure Aziraphale mumbles something about the plants being an accident. He rearranges himself again and lets his eyes go heavy. “I have had an angel in my bed, creeping in while I slept…”

Aziraphale makes a choking, squeaking noise, and poofs away out of sheer embarrassment, returning a moment later in a fluster of dust and wings and coughing. 

“Crowley!” he says, loud and appalled. Crowley laughs, stretching again. “Oh stop it.”

“Come back to bed, then,” Crowley says. “What’re you doing all trussed up in a suit and tie and- put your wings away, you’re going to knock everything off.”

“What off? You have nothing in here except the bed,” Aziraphale says, peevishly. 

For a while bookshelves and books and little tables and tea-sets and little china models had started to appear, but Crowley forbade them, and Aziraphale is Put Out. He gives a hitching kind of shrug, scrunches himself up a bit, sighs in exasperation and turns to look at his wings. They flutter and then fold up. Aziraphale comes over, finally, and perches on the edge of the bed, head tipped back to watch the window. Crowley watches him, now, instead; the twitch of his lips, the softness around his eyes, his calm even breathing. He’s so beautiful, it’s annoying.

“What are you thinking, scrunching your poor face up like that?” Aziraphale says.

“My po- it’s  _ my  _ face, I’ll do as I like with it,” Crowley says. “It’s not doing anything, I’m not odd. You’re odd. You are odd, you’re being odd, what’s odd? Good odd, but odd. Too many ‘odd’s. Doesn’t sound like a word anymore. Isn’t that a thing? You say it so much it loses meaning. Another odd thing.”

Aziraphale lies down, Crowley’s ready to squawk about shoes on the covers but Aziraphale’s wearing socks. Crowley stares at his feet, blinking. They’re pink socks, with golden circles embroidered on. Halos. Golden halos. 

“Those are hideous socks,” Crowley says. 

“I like them,” Aziraphale says. “I’m not odd.” 

“No,” Crowley agrees, easily, because Aziraphale’s voice is soft and there’s a question just beneath his certainty. “You’re lovely, obviously.”

“I like your face,” Aziraphale says. 

He’s still soft, still gazing up at the rain, still almost smiling. 

“Anyway, what were you saying, before? What’s ‘nice’?” Crowley says.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale isn’t listening, he’s exmaning Crowley’s hand where it’s resting on the sheet, lifting it and clasping it in both his own, holding it. Holding hands. “The rain’s nice. Do you like it?”

“Do I like rain? No, it’s wet,” Crowley says, irritable about all the water and the squished flowers. Aziraphale frowns at him, head turned on the pillow, hair fluffing and curling around him. It’s growing, curling more as it does, little corkscrew curls. “Hnng, fine, it’s… cosy, in here, though, maybe. With the… wet. Out there. Warm in here.”

Aziraphale beams. Crowley huffs a sigh and looks at the rain, crushing the petals of the flowers to the glass then sluicing them away. 

“And the nice warm sheets,” Aziraphale says. 

Ah. Smug bastard. They  _ are  _ warm, seeping into Crowley, making the rain feel distant. 

“Huh,” Crowley says, eventually. He turns his head, kisses Aziraphale’s hair. 

“I feel safe,” Aziraphale whispers.

Safe? Crowley isn’t a 'safe' kind of being. He can’t keep anyone safe. He remembers Aziraphale yelling at him to come up with something or never get talked to again, begging to be kept safe. Crowley is dangerous, he’s… it does feel safe, with Aziraphale, though. Here. Together. For now, they’re safe together.

“Oh,” he says.

Aziraphale laughs, breath against Crowley’s skin, vibrating with amusement.

“See?” Aziraphale says, smug. Wanker.

“Wanker.”

“Crowley!”

“Shush. Really, angel, I’m the last…”

“I don’t expect anything of you. It’s not rational. I’ve been scared for so long, and I’m sure I will be again, but you make me feel safe. I feel it. The rest I don’t care about,” Aziraphale rests his chin against Crowley’s shoulder and glares, daring him to question that.

Crowley doesn’t. 

“Fuck,” Crowley mutters, hand tightening against Aziraphale’s head, cradling him closer. “I like you.”

“Why must you swear? There is no need at all, especially just in order to say that. Really, Crowley, can’t you just say it?” Aziraphale grumbles. 

“Can  _ you _ ?” Crowley asks, curious. 

He’s never heard Aziraphale say it, not out-and-out. He’s said it a billion little ways over the centuries (offering shelter from the rain; making to the effort to learn and use Crowley’s name as he changed it; keeping company when things were bad; the way he calls Crowley ‘wiley’ with badly-hidden admiration and delight; his fear for Crowley’s safety; his horror over the idea of Crowley using holy water; bringing Crowley holy water anyway... ). Some of the time when Aziraphale talks about ‘love’, and ‘forgiveness’ for that matter, it’s a sanctimonious, cold, Heavenly kind of thing. All paperwork, duty, and with a stick up his arse about rules and regulations. 

“Of course I can, I’m an angel,” Aziraphale says. 

“Uh huh.”

“I  _ can _ . I just don’t want to. So there.”

“So you don’t?” Crowley asks, amused by this. Aziraphale’s sullen and hiding and his ears are pink. 

“Not a bit.”

“Oh look, I’m crying real tears.”

Aziraphale grumbles wordlessly, but reluctantly sits up to check. Crowley grins at him and Aziraphale smacks his shoulder, turning away, knees tucked up against his chest, head back to watch the rain. 

“I do love you,” he says, quietly, genuine with emotion. It’s Crowley’s turn to blush. “I have for a very long time, I hope you know. Knew.”

“Yeah,” Crowley admits, sitting up too and leaning into Aziraphale’s back, kissing his neck. “‘course.”

“I’m not… good at saying it. I worry. I don’t always know what people mean by it, and I worry I’ll be misinterpreted. But, I mean it in all ways, for you, so you can take it in any way you wish and it will be true. So yes, my dear, I love you. Very much.”

Crowley makes a noise, trying to form words. He can’t. He bites Azirphale’s shoulder instead, before leaping up, waving his hand to dress himself and make the bed. Aziraphale yelps as he’s displaced by the covers tucking themselves neatly in. He’s in the way and Crowley’s embarrassed and the duvet gives a sharper, harder yank, sending Aziraphale to the floor. 

“Sorry,” Crowley says. “Oops.”

“No harm done,” Aziraphale says, getting up. “You could have just asked me to move, though, dear. Honestly.”

“I love you,” Crowley blurts out, wanting to be sure Aziraphale understands. “Like you. I do, too.”

Aziraphale smiles like the sun coming out, and, oh, the sun _ does  _ come out. Golden through the rain and flooding into the room, warm against the rush of water against the glass, through the coloured petals like stained glass. Aziraphale glances up, grimaces, and waves his hands in the air until the sun softens to a more normal, English greyish. 

“Shall we take a walk?” Azirpahale says. 

“It’s raining, and-” Crowley starts, but they’re already in the street, Aziraphale holding his arm. “It’s  _ raining _ ! And you’re not wearing shoes! Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale mutters something, tucks Crowley’s arm more firmly into his and sets them walking, miracling an umbrella. And shoes. And socks for Crowley, who wasn’t quite done dressing. He’s so ridiculous, and Crowley can’t help loving him, it’s awful. And wet. And so what if Aziraphale’s happy, and so what if the muffling rain makes their little sphere under the umbrella feel safe and small and theirs, and so what if the sun does come out halfway through their walk. 


End file.
